


Sunny Days

by circledot



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Family Drama, Fiddstan, M/M, Mystery Trio, Mystery Trio AU, Rating may change in future, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 06:42:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20223505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circledot/pseuds/circledot
Summary: Mystery Trio AU in which Ford and Stan reconnect much sooner than in the show. Stan comes to FIddleford and Ford with a mystery involving disappearing drifters, looking much the worse for wear. Eventual FIddStan.





	Sunny Days

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, let me know what you think :) First fanfic I have posted in years

Fiddleford tilted his head to the side, watching as Stanford’s brother- and wasn’t that some kind of surprise, you think you know someone and then boom they’re a twin- scarfed down another mouthful of pancake. He didn’t seem to notice that Fiddleford was watching him intently, so focused on his breakfast that it made Fiddleford wonder when the last time he’d had food was. He opened his mouth to ask but Stanford, sitting next to him, nudging him and shook his head. Fiddleford couldn’t quite parse the look on Ford’s face. It was something softer than what he usually saw, but guarded too. His jaw was clenched tight as he watched his brother eat, like he, too, wanted to say something but was holding himself back from it. Stanley finally looked up and Fiddleford realized that his eyes- a darker brown than Ford’s- were deeply bloodshot.  
“Are you ok?” he asked. Stan scrubbed the sleeve of his hoodie over his syrup stained mouth. His threadbare hoodie had seen better days.  
“Fit as a fiddle,” Stan said. As he spoke he shoved the rest of his pancakes towards Stanford who, to Fiddleford’s surprise, took a large bite. “Why you ask?”  
This felt fairly obvious.He’d seen his share of roughed up men- in Tennessee, they were a dime a dozen- but there was something fundamentally disconcerting about this one, that looked so much like his best friend, but with deliberate mistakes.  
“You look like shit,” he said simply. Stanford shifted, but Stanley grinned.  
“You ain’t even seen shit if you think this is bad,” he said, and took a deep, long swig of coffee. He wiped his mouth again and the waitress, a woman about their age with big hair and a loud voice, came over to refill it almost instantly. Her eyes lingered on Stanley as she did so. Some women liked to fixate on men who looked broken. Somewhere, sometime, someone had told them that it was their job to pick a broken man up and put him back together, and that doing so was their duty. This waitress has certainly been taught that, if the way her eyes lingered on Stans’ threadbare hoodie was any indication.  
Stanley, however, barely seemed to notice, and nodded at her in thanks before turning back to Ford and Fiddleford.  
“Stanley,’ Ford said, finally, the first thing he’d said to his brother since he crashed into the cabin that morning, babbling nonsensically about “help” and looking like death barely warmed over. The subsequent trip to the diner, where Ford filled Fiddleford in on the fact that yeah, actually, he wasn’t an only child, and this was his drifter brother, let’s go get something to eat before I lose my shit, had been awkward enough, and Stanley, strangely silent, had watched them speak about him with a hollow-eyed passivity that put Fidds on edge. “Stanley, what the hell is going on. You roll in here look like” he gestured at Stan’s appearance with a pained look on his face. “You gonna tell me what’s going on?”  
Stan was silent for a long moment, looking at his brother, before he reached into his hoodie and tossed a wallet on the table. It was a working man’s wallet, fake leather and duct taped together in a few places. A few dollar bills poked out the top. It was speckled with dirt, and when Stanford reached for it a few flecks fell onto the brown table. Stan brushed them aside with a flick of his hand, and watched his brother open the waller.  
Stanford pulled out an ID and raised his eyebrows.  
“Who is this,” he said, looking up at Stan.  
“He’s a buddy of mine” Stan said. “We worked together on construction in Boring- he was a decent dude, but he stopped showing up. It’s not that weird, I mean, people leave all the fuckin time, but he- it was like,” he made a vague hand motion like he was shooing away a fly. “It was like he was never there? Nobody knew who I was talking about or nothing when I asked about him. I rolled up to his motel room and none of his stuff was there.”  
Stanford flicked through the wallet.  
“I used to give him rides back there, and he left his wallet in my car. I dunno, man,” Stan shrugged. “It’s- he’s just gone. And nobody remembers him but me.”  
“Did you ask the motel desk?” asked Fidds.  
“They didn’t remember him either, and they didn’t like me poking around. I tried to get a look at their ledger while the attendant was in the back but,” Stan ran a hand through his shaggy, unkempt hair. “Maybe I’m not as sneaky as I thought I was.”  
“You get kicked out?” asked Ford.  
Stan smirked.  
“Chased out.” he said.  
“Serves you right,” Ford said, and Stan snorted.  
“I’d like to see you do better, Poindexter.”  
“I wouldn’t have tried to do it literally in front of him, Stanley.”  
“He was in the back, idiot.”  
“That’s rich, coming from a-”  
“A what, Stanford?”  
The air crackled between them, reminding Fiddleford of the first moment Stan had crashed into the house, smelling like shit, and the way that Stanford had looked at him, all rage and frustration and worry and something deeper- a badger instinct to attack the person in front of him. He broke in before Stanford could reply, shoving his elbow discreetly into his friend’s ribs.  
“Stanley,” he said evenly. Stanley looked away from his brother to look at Fiddleford, settling back and crossing his arms across his chest. “Look- how do you know that this guy is missing? Like you said, people leave construction jobs all the time, it’s not usually a life time job. People bail after a couple paychecks and they’re replaced by some other drifter looking for money. Seems like you know that too. Couldn’t he just have, I dunno, not made much of an impression on anyone else? Why are you so sure he’s just gone?’  
“You’re not hearing me-uh,”  
“Fiddleford. My names Fiddleford.”  
“Alright. You’re not hearing me, nobody remembers him. He spent half the day hauling lumber with these guys and the other half getting drunk with them. He was a mouthy little fuck, never knew when to shut up. He wasn’t exactly a fly under the radar type guy, and it’s like he was never there. His place on the schedule isn’t crossed out, it’s gone, even the shifts he already did. Somebody else has his locker, and nobody knows who the hell I mean. Like it or not, you don’t forget somebody who passes out on the foreman’s desk after a night out.”  
Ford and Fiddleford shared a look. Fidds couldn’t tell exactly what Ford was thinking, but he figured it was the same as him. This had promise. Whatever it was, it was worth looking into.


End file.
